"Don't call me Mrs. Smith; call me Emmeline, as we are cousins. I shouldn't at all like it if I mightn't call you Carl. Carl is such a handsome name, and it suits you. Now, doesn't it, Sully?" "Yes, darling," Sullivan answered nonchalantly. He was at the back of the box, and clearly it was his benevolent desire to give me fair opportunity of a tete-a-tete with his dark and languorous lady. Unfortunately, I was quite unpractised in the art of maintaining a tete-a-tete with dark and languorous ladies. Presently he rose. "I must look up Smart," he said, and left us. "Sullivan has been telling me about you. What a strange meeting! And so you are a doctor! You don't know how young you look. Why, I am old enough to be your mother!" "Oh, no, you aren't," I said. At any rate, I knew enough to say that. And she smiled. "Personally," she went on, "I hate music--loathe it. But it's Sullivan's trade, and, of course, one must come here." She waved a jewelled arm towards the splendid animation of the auditorium. "But surely, Emmeline," I cried protestingly, "you didn't 'loathe' that first act. I never heard anything like it. Rosa was simply--well, I can't describe it." She gazed at me, and a cloud of melancholy seemed to come into her eyes. And after a pause she said, in the strangest tone, very quietly: "You're in love with her already." And her eyes continued to hold mine. "Who could help it?" I laughed. She leaned towards me, and her left hand hung over the edge of the box. "Women like Rosetta Rosa ought to be killed!" she said, with astonishing ferocity. Her rich, heavy contralto vibrated through me. She was excited again, that was evident. The nervous mood had overtaken her. The long pendent lobes of her ears crimsoned, and her opulent bosom heaved. I was startled. I was rather more than startled--I was frightened. I said to myself, "What a peculiar creature!" "Why?" I questioned faintly. "Because they are too young, too lovely, too dangerous," she responded with fierce emphasis. "And as for Rosa in particular--as for Rosa in particular--if you knew what I knew, what I've seen----" "What have you seen?" I was bewildered. I began to wish that Sullivan had not abandoned me to her. "Perhaps I'm wrong," she laughed. She laughed, and sat up straight again, and resumed her excellent imitation of the woman of fashion, while I tried to behave as though I had found nothing singular in her behavior. "You know about our reception?" she asked vivaciously in another moment, playing with her fan. "I'm afraid I don't." "Where have you been, Carl?" "I've been in Edinburgh," I said, "for my final."